At daybreak for the next ten days Mycenae’s chariots paraded in the open over the ford--a covering force lest Trojans emerged to stem our harrying--and we loosed eight thousand warriors on an orgy of destruction. They ravaged the plain from end to end, fired every byre, slew herdsmen, caught women washing garments at a spring below Troy’s plateau--the first of many concubines enslaved during the war--captured cattle by the score and drove them into camp: an acceptable replenishment for diminishing provisions.
(There are no villages in the plain, which is liable to flooding in winter, fever-ridden in summer and almost uninhabitable. Those who till the soil live in the hills, immune from Achaean attacks. Our irruptions depleted Troy’s resources but scarcely touched the people.)
A tidal wave of havoc lapped close to Priam’s walls. The Myrmidons--champion pillagers, whatever else their flaws--burned houses fringing the township. Ajax’s half-brother Teucer, an archer widely famed, is alleged to have planted arrows in the Scaean Gate’s oak portals. The Trojans seemed curiously lethargic. Lacking time or forethought they failed to send their cattle to safety in the hills; nor, beyond a half-hearted sally speedily bundled back, did they try to oppose the raiders.
With the countryside reduced to a lifeless desert I tempted the Trojans to battle. After concealing a powerful striking force behind Thorn Hill I repeatedly sent columns to trail their cloaks on open ground between the city and Scamander. The enemy stayed firmly behind walls; our flying columns day by day grew bolder. Ajax mounted the road to the plateau, rode through a town he found deserted and exchanged arrows with Trojan warriors above the Dardanian Gate. Diomedes rashly tried to compass the citadel’s circuit, found the northern scarp too steep for chariots and jostled around the Scaean Gate until a sally Hector led hustled him sharply away.
Despondency followed our useless efforts to lure the enemy out. ‘Priam sees himself outnumbered in the field,’ Diomedes asserted, ‘but knows we cannot throttle his supplies. Therefore he’s resolved to stand indefinite siege. At this rate we’ll be here for the next ten years!’
‘I believe he has forewarning of the traps we set,’ Odysseus conjectured. ‘We probably harbour a spy in the camp.’
Menelaus said, ‘Old Priam may be happy to sit behind his walls, but Hector’s forged in a different mould--an aggressive, headstrong Hero. Our harrying must have enraged him. Sooner or later Hector will attack.’
‘Priam’s waiting for his allies to arrive,’ I said. ‘He’ll strike directly they’re mustered.’
‘Will we get any warning?’ Nestor asked.
‘Yes--because the citadel is too small to contain the confederate forces. Rebuilding since the earthquake eleven years ago has circumscribed the area: four thousand troops at most can be quartered inside. Reinforcements must camp in the foothills; our scouts will at once observe them.’
‘We’ll have to storm Troy in the end,’ said Ajax. ‘Why not do it now?’
Nestor shook a disapproving head. I said grimly, ‘We lost that chance on the day we landed. Troy’s defences are formidable, her warriors courageous. We must wear the enemy down, decimate their numbers before an escalade. The situation is,’ I summarized, ‘we hold command of the plain, and the Trojans won’t give battle before they’re reinforced.’
‘So,’ said Diomedes, ‘what are we to do? Sit on our bottoms and wait?’
‘On the contrary. We’ll strike at the seaboard cities that send provisions to Troy.’
All acclaimed the suggestion, none more enthusiastic than Achilles and his Myrmidons, plunderers by instinct, the sacking of a city their most desired goal. I was glad of an excuse to get rid of these ruffians for however short a time. They were troublesome and disorderly, forever seeking quarrels, pilfering from neighbours and generally disturbing the camp. So I gave Achilles all Phthia’s war-bands in near two hundred galleys, sent him sailing southwards and fervently hoped the sod would get himself killed.
Ajax and Odysseus led separate expeditions to raid the Thracian coast. (Odysseus’ incursion bred unhappy repercussions.) I marched three thousand warriors north in an optimistic venture to capture Abydos and thereby cut communications to Sestos on the opposite shore of the Hellespont’s narrowest strait: a channel to Troy for Thracian troops and supplies. I marched the final stage by night, saw Abydos at dawn and nearly took the city by surprise--the gates clanged shut in our vanguard’s faces. We sacked and fired the township, piled booty high on wagons and glumly surveyed the citadel’s lowering walls. Abydos was strong, too strong for an escalade; and neither leisure nor numbers allowed a lengthy leaguer. Even while we roved round the walls, boats crossing the narrows from Sestos disgorged supplies and men at a harbour gate the citadel’s towers commanded. Abydos, I decided sadly, lay beyond our grasp.
The war-bands trailed dejectedly back to Scamander.
* * *
Gelon and his Scribes lived near the beach in a hut the carpenters had furnished with oakwood tables and stools. Ciphering on paper and clay they computed the forces’ provisions. Scribes periodically checked supply dumps and admonished wasteful war-bands: certain Heroes devoured their provender--grain and meat on hoof--on a scale approaching Agasthenes’ lavish banquets. Well organized Hosts like Argos’ and Mycenae’s closely controlled supplies; but with people like the Myrmidons the Scribes’ counsel had as much effect as pebbles cast in a pond.
Hence the problem of provisions was starting to worry Gelon. After two moons on foreign soil our food ran low despite the beasts collected from pillaging round Troy. Reserves of corn, especially, were rapidly being depleted. Leaders had been told to ship two moons’ supply but, in the haphazard fashion of Heroes, many had brought much less. I persuaded the kings to instruct their Regents in Achaea that corn supplies be sent overland to Aulis, and Gelon organized convoys to ferry the provisions to Troy. (For meat I depended on raiding.) The system worked very well; throughout the war our people never lacked food.
Ajax returned from his Thracian raid grinning all over his face: corn and other booty loaded galleys to the oar-ports. Odysseus was not so fortunate. Landing farther west he ran into an ambush, lost twenty valuable warriors and three penteconters destroyed on the beach. A second attempt to land elsewhere found Thracians prepared to repel him. Discouraged by reverses he returned to Scamander empty-hulled.
Odysseus discovered me contemplating a wooden house that slaves were building to replace my leather tent--everywhere in camp similar huts were rising--and dejectedly recounted his misadventures. I gave him a cup of wine--looted by Ajax in Thrace--and sympathetic comfort. One of his attendants, a hard-faced youthful Hero, rudely interrupted. ‘A gutless performance!’ he rapped. ‘Odysseus is too easily disheartened. We should have tried again!’
I eyed the fellow coldly. ‘Are you imputing cowardice to a tried and tested warrior? What is your name?’
‘Palamedes son of Nauplius from Corinth.’
‘Then curb your tongue, Palamedes. Discourtesy does not become a Mycenaean Hero.’
Odysseus’ sword blade scraped from the scabbard. ‘Insolent cub! Draw--and prove your lies!’
‘Put up your sword, Odysseus! What proof will a duel provide? Could you, Palamedes,’ I inquired sardonically, ‘have performed any better in Thrace?’
‘Give me the ships, sire,’ he said heatedly, ‘and I’ll show you what Odysseus could have done!’
I plucked a hair from my beard and held it to the sunlight. Grey--I was growing old. If this young hothead stayed there would undoubtedly be a fight which might involve the war-bands from Ithaca and Corinth. Quarrellings and killings were bad for the army’s morale--let Palamedes go and tempers cool.
‘Very well. You’ll have a chance to vindicate your boast. Take ten Corinthian galleys and sail to Thrace. Don’t hang about--get going! Eurymedon, fill Lord Odysseus’ cup.’
Unhappily for the outcome the youngster came back a fortnight later, his galleys awash with corn taken--he said--from the very place where Odysseus met
defeat. Palamedes bragged insufferably, crowing like a cockerel on a dunghill.
Odysseus brooded. A few days afterwards he dragged a foreigner to my hut and hurled him prostrate at my feet.
‘Cretans on Thorn Hill caught him prowling during the night. A Phrygian slinger, one of Priam’s allies. I’ve questioned him--you’ll find he tells an interesting story.’ He kicked the wretch in the ribs. ‘Go on--tell the king!’
I could barely follow the prisoner’s stammering dialect, and wanted to disbelieve the little I understood. King Priam, he said, had sent him in the night to deliver a bag of gold to a traitor in the Achaean camp as payment for betrayal of our strategy. This he had done, and was caught returning.
I said, ‘To whom did you give the gold?’
The Phrygian glanced fearfully at Odysseus, licked cracked lips and whispered, ‘Palamedes.’
‘Nonsense! Palamedes? He’s an ordinary household Hero who farms a small estate near Corinth, and certainly isn’t privy to our plans!’
‘Easily verified,’ said Odysseus. ‘Search Palamedes’ tent. Meanwhile this rascal has told us all he knows, and so--’ Before I could raise a hand he whipped dagger from sheath and plunged it to the hilt behind the Phrygian’s ear. He squealed like a pig, and thrashed in death throes on the sand.
I said disapprovingly, ‘Over-hasty, friend. We needed a witness to confront Palamedes.’
Odysseus wiped his dagger on the dying slinger’s hair. ‘Unnecessary. The gold, if we find it. will be evidence enough.’ Spearmen at heel we went to Palamedes’ tent--he had not yet built a hut. The owner, a servant said, had taken his horses to graze on the plain. I ransacked a wooden coffer, then ordered the tent to be struck, druggets, pallet and furniture thrown aside. Odysseus pointed. ‘Signs of digging there. Anyone got a mattock?’
Spearmen uncovered a small leather bag buried near the surface. I loosed the string and peered inside; gold-dust gleamed in the sun. ‘Find Palamedes,’ I said heavily, ‘and bring him to my house. Call the Council, Odysseus; we’ll try him without delay.’
Four kings sat in rough wooden chairs that carpenters had made--Ajax and Odysseus, neither paramount rulers, were excluded from the court--and asked the Corinthian Hero searching questions. Palamedes hotly denied he had received a bribe from Priam or anyone else, and vowed he had never been in contact with the enemy. The source of the gold he could not explain; it never occurred to him to claim the bag was planted.
I believed him. I knew Odysseus’ tortuous bent; directly he killed the only available witness I realized he had contrived the entire business in revenge for his humiliation over the Thracian raid: a reflection on his courage and his honour. But unprovable suppositions are better left unsaid. More provident to sacrifice a humble Hero than estrange the wily Ithacan whose counsel I valued so highly. I spoke little during the trial; but in face of the evidence, with no contrary proof forthcoming, Menelaus, Diomedes and Nestor condemned the accused to death.
Stoning is the penalty for treachery in war. Heralds ranged the camp, cried Palamedes’ crime and announced his execution. A slave gang stripped him naked--the uttermost indignity--dragged him over a causeway and stood him above the ditch. They retired a dozen paces and gathered stones in heaps. A murmurous crowd ringed an open space where the Corinthian faced his killers.
I told the slaves, ‘Do your work.’
Death by stoning can be messy and prolonged, the victim’s most desirable hope an early blow on the skull to knock him senseless. The slaves were indifferent shots. Palamedes stayed conscious for an agonizing age while stones broke ribs and shoulders and smashed his body to pulp. The crowd began protesting--even Heroes feel compassion. Exasperated, I bade the executioners move close to the squirming form and batter in his head. This they did, and the rat-like squealing ceased.
Later on, in camp, I handed Odysseus the bag of gold and said, ‘Your property, I believe.’ His face remained inscrutable, and all he answered was, ‘Sire, you have a most suspicious mind.’
* * *
Achilles returned in triumph from his raiding. So laden were the galleys that rowers had to be cautious plying the oars. Myrmidons spent an entire day emptying ships of plunder, landing enormous quantities of corn and wine in jars, cauldrons, tripods, furniture and cloth, jewellery and gold and several hundred prisoners. Achilles and Patroclus swaggered hand in hand to my house. Bombastically the leader related his adventures. I repeat the tale as he told it: believe as much as you will.
‘We sailed from Scamander in late afternoon, passed Tenedos at sundown and, when the wind dropped, rowed non-stop through the night. Soon after daybreak we beached at the head of a gulf, landed and assaulted a city called Thisbe.’
Achilles drained a goblet that for courtesy’s sake I offered, and fingered the drops on a beardless chin. ‘After sacking the town we stormed the citadel, a high-walled fortress strongly garrisoned, normally safe from pirates and such. Not from Myrmidons, needless to say. We carried the gates in a rush, killed the defenders and brought booty and captives back to the ships. We took only women, of course.’
Achilles thrust his goblet under a squire’s nose and abruptly demanded replenishment--typical Myrmidon boorishness: rude unmannerly rogues! ‘Next morning I hunted the city’s cattle which had gone for summer pasturing to Ida’s lower slopes. The herds were scattered and heavily guarded. We chased over ridges and valleys for days, slew herdsmen, rounded up cattle and swung northwards to cut their escape through mountain passes to Dardania. I spared a Hero named Aeneas whose arrogant bearing declared him somebody important and worth a valuable ransom.’
‘Important indeed! King Anchises’ son, and heir to Dardania--Troy’s most powerful ally. We’ll offer to spare his life on condition Dardania withdraws from the war! Where are you keeping him?’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Achilles, ‘Aeneas slipped his guards and escaped across the mountains.’
‘Most unfortunate.’ Discounting the whole incident as a braggart fabrication I sank back in my chair. (In fact the story proved to be true.) ‘Can’t be helped. Go on.’
‘I drove the captured cattle to the beaches, and after a day or two marched inland on Lyrnessos. Though a stronger city than Thisbe it fell to us as easily.’
‘You took Lyrnessos?’ I said incredulously. (The citadel was reputed the Troad’s most impregnable outside Troy.)
‘No trouble at all,’ said Achilles airily. ‘After looting and firing the place we returned to the ships, loaded the spoils in Thisbe’s abandoned galleys and sailed for Lesbos, sacking other cities on the way.’ He enlarged upon his exploits, occasionally seeking Patroclus’ confirmation for some improbable feat. That taciturn individual merely grunted assent. ‘Then,’ Achilles concluded, ‘we rowed home against the wind--the hardest part of the whole expedition.’
(This extensive raid soon became known as the Great Foray. The singers--particularly Achilles’ perjurer from Chios--are adding flamboyant embellishments, not to say outright lies. None the less the booty alone shows the Myrmidons inflicted considerable damage on Priam’s friends in the Troad; his provisions from these sources dwindled to a trickle. Yet I sometimes wonder how much of the Foray’s success was due to Patroclus--a valiant warrior despite his perversion--and how little to Achilles.)
Distribution of the spoils among the Hosts produced a sorry sequel. The loot was heaped in mounds and divided according to rank. I, naturally, took first pick; and after selecting various treasures examined the woeful female captives huddled together in groups. (A desirable addition to our strength. Apart from the washerwomen taken earlier at the springs the camp contained no women; and Heroes unable to copulate grow tetchy and obstreperous.) I chose a good-looking wench to grace my bed and some strapping sluts as servant girls, and finally pointed a finger at an exceptionally beautiful creature standing apart from the others. Achilles, dogging my perambulations, clearly grudging every cauldron or bale of cloth I claimed, interjected loudly, ‘No, you can’t take Briseis!
She shouldn’t be here--I’ve chosen her myself!’
‘You know the custom, Achilles. Kings have premier rights.’ I said to my steward, ‘Put her with the rest.’
‘She’s mine!’ Achilles exclaimed. ‘I won her by my valour and in danger of my life while you, King Agamemnon, stayed prudently in camp!’
‘Guard your tongue!’ I said angrily. ‘I’ve no doubt you and your Myrmidons have already stolen the choicest treasures and hidden them away. You’ve made a mistake and failed to hide this woman. I’ve claimed her--and that’s that!’
Fury contorted Achilles’ pasty features. ‘You’re a double-dealing, avaricious crook! You cheat men quite abominably and still expect their loyalty! Well, you’ll get no more from me unless you surrender Briseis!’
I forget what I replied, and Achilles’ ranting rejoinder. The argument degenerated into a slanging match conducted at the tops of our voices while Heroes in the vicinity listened in awestruck silence. We paused to draw breath, and Nestor intervened.
‘Listen, my lords. You’re both my juniors in age. In the past I’ve known men and fought beside men whom not a soul on earth today could meet in battle. Still, they sought and heeded my advice, and you must do the same.’ (Nestor, I’m afraid, has a tendency to lecture.) ‘Forgo your privilege of rank, Agamemnon, and give Achilles the girl. And you, Achilles, apologize for insulting the king who commands Achaea’s Hosts.’
‘Do you suggest I take orders from this perverted bugger?’ I raved. ‘That I, King of Mycenae, yield to a Phthian pederast? Nestor, the sun has addled your brain!’
‘Then,’ Achilles shouted, ‘you can battle the Trojans without me, for neither I nor my Myrmidons will fight any more in the war!’
He stamped away. Patroclus shrugged, grimaced wryly, and followed. Nestor said, ‘What a damned stupid quarrel over a slave girl! Do you think Achilles means what he says?’
‘What does it matter?’ I fumed. ‘The man’s insane, hysterical, a flaming nuisance at all times and a liability in war. His Myrmidons are no better: an undisciplined rout of ruffians! We’ll be better off without them, leader and led!’
King in Splendour Page 28
